TIME ECHOES
To Josiah – Thank you for helping me unlock another door to the beyond.
OTHER BOOKS BY BRYAN DAVIS
The Time Echoes Trilogy
Time Echoes
Interfinity
Fatal Convergence
The Reapers Trilogy
Reapers
Beyond the Gateway
Reaper Reborn
Dragons in our Midst
Raising Dragons
The Candlestone
Circles of Seven
Tears of a Dragon
Oracles of Fire
Eye of the Oracle
Enoch’s Ghost
Last of the Nephilim
The Bones of Makaidos
Children of the Bard
Song of the Ovulum
From the Mouth of Elijah
The Seventh Door
Omega Dragon
Dragons of Starlight
Starlighter
Warrior
Diviner
Liberator
Tales of Starlight
Masters & Slayers
Third Starlighter
Exodus Rising
Standalone Books
I Know Why the Angels Dance
The Image of a Father
Spit & Polish for Husbands
Beelzebed
To learn more about Bryan’s books, go to
www.daviscrossing.com
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TIME ECHOES
BOOK 1 OF
THE TIME ECHOES TRILOGY
BY BRYAN DAVIS
Copyright © 2017 by Bryan Davis
Published by Scrub Jay Journeys
P. O. Box 512
Middleton, TN 38052
www.scrubjayjourneys.com
email:
[email protected] All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Print ISBN: 978-1-946253-51-4
Epub ISBN: 978-1-946253-50-7
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-946253-49-1
First Printing – January 2017
Printed in the U.S.A.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016918551
Cover Design by Rebekah Sather - selfpubbookcovers.com/RLSather
Time Echoes is a rewrite of Beyond the Reflection’s Edge, published in 2008.
CHAPTER ONE
An assassin lurked outside. At least Clara, my tutor, thought so. After surviving many harrowing escapes, I was used to being followed by shadowy figures. The latest, a guy who sat in a Mustang in the parking lot, was no big deal. Clara, on the other hand, imagined a blood-thirsty terrorist hiding around every corner.
Trying to ignore the potential danger, I sat on my motel-room bed tapping on my laptop computer, while Clara peered out the window. The Mustang driver had really spooked her. “Chill, Clara. He doesn’t know which room we’re in. That’s why he’s just sitting out there.”
“I suppose you’re right, but we’ll have to deal with him when we leave.” She closed the curtains, casting a blanket of darkness across the room. When she turned on a corner table lamp, its pale light seemed to deepen the wrinkles on her face and hands, though her dressy gown made her look younger than her sixty-something years. “How much more time do you need on that spreadsheet?”
“Just a couple of minutes.” I winked. “Dad’s abacus must be broken. It took almost an hour to balance his books.”
“No excuses, Nathan. I saw you playing one of those shooting games a little while ago.” Clara returned to her window vigil, a hand clutching the curtain. “He looks like one of the henchmen for that Colombian drug lord your father took down last year.”
I pushed the laptop to the side, slid off the bed, and looked over Clara’s shoulder. The black Mustang sat parked under a tree, the driver watching the motel’s front door. An intermittent shower of leaves, blown around by Chicago’s never-ending breezes, danced about on the convertible’s ragtop. “He’s not Colombian, Clara. He’s Middle Eastern.”
“Is that supposed to settle my nerves?” A pallor passed across her face. “My intuition says we should leave as soon as possible.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll pack up.”
“Make sure your father’s mirror is protected.”
“I’ll double wrap it.” I walked over both beds and bounced to the floor in front of a shallow closet. From the top of my open suitcase, I picked up the square, six-by-six-inch mirror, bordered by an ornate silver frame. Dad had called it a Quattro viewer when talking about his latest assignment — retrieving stolen data for a company that used reflective technology. I was supposed to keep the mirror safe while he was gone.
I gazed at my reflection, the familiar portrait I expected, but something bright pulsed in my eyes, like the flash of a camera. A second later, Clara’s face appeared just above my dark cowlick.
I spun toward her. Strange. She was still near the window. When I turned back to the mirror, her image was gone.
As she walked up behind me, her face reappeared in the glass. I glanced back and forth between the mirror and Clara. The quick-changing images were just too weird.
The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth chimed from my computer — an email alert. After wrapping the mirror in two shirts, I leaped back to my bed and pulled up the message, a note from Dad.
We enjoyed our anniversary getaway. I hope you and Clara had fun sightseeing. Your mother is rehearsing with Nikolai. After her first piece for the shareholders, she’ll call you to the stage to play your duet. Nikolai repaired your violin. He says it’s as good as new and ready to sizzle. Since it’s the Vivaldi piece, you shouldn’t have any problem, even with no practice the last three days. Just don’t mention your performance to Dr. Simon. Trust me. It will all work out.
Clara flung a wadded pair of black socks. They bounced off my chin and landed next to my motorcycle helmet on the night table. “Put your tux on. I’ll finish packing.”
I trudged back to my suitcase and set the laptop inside. “We’ll look amazing riding the Harleys through town, you in that fancy dress and me in a tux.”
“Not through town. Just to our storage unit where we can park the bikes. Mike’s picking us up there in the limo. No sense arriving at the concert looking like windblown scarecrows.”
“Good enough. Maybe we can get Mike to take a picture of us so Mom and Dad can see how cool we look.” I walked into the bathroom where my tux hung on the shower rod. After dressing in a rush, I reentered the main room while fastening the bowtie with barely a glance. Attending way too many formal dinners had given me plenty of practice.
Two small suitcases and my backpack sat next to the door. Clara stood at the window, peering around the curtain once more. “He saw me, Nathan. He’s getting out.”
“Here we go again.” I threw the backpack on and grabbed our suitcases. “We’ll take the hallway exit.”
She slid my helmet over my head and put hers on. “Let’s go.”
We rushed out of the room and jogged toward the exit at the end of the corridor. I looked back. The Mustang driver appeared from around a corner, a gun in hand.
He fired. A bullet zipped past and clanked into the exit’s metal door.
I shoved it open, pulled Clara through, and slammed it as I shouted, “Run!”
While she took off in a trot, I set the suitcases down and waited a step or two in front of the door. Seconds later, it eased open a few inches. The moment the gun and a forearm appe
ared in the gap, I slammed the door. The arm crunched, the man yelped, and the gun dropped to the ground.
I threw the door open. The man staggered back into the hall and grasped his arm, his face twisting in pain. Using a head butt, I crashed my helmet against his nose. In a spray of blood, he toppled and collapsed.
After pocketing the gun and grabbing the suitcases, I ran to the motel’s front parking lot. Clara had already straddled and started her Harley, her dress pulled up to her thighs.
While she revved the engine, I strapped the suitcases to the backs of the bikes and jumped onto my Harley. I started the engine, swung the bike around, and scooted out of the lot, Clara close behind.
Once on the road, she accelerated to my side and called, “What happened?”
“I gave him a nose job. Tell you more later.”
“You have blood on your helmet.” She looked me over. “None on your tux, though. I assume the blood’s all his.”
“It is.” I glanced back. No sign of the Mustang. Whoever that guy was, he meant business. He wanted us dead.
Inhaling deeply, I refocused forward. My hands trembled, the same hands that would soon have to flawlessly manipulate a bow and strings. Playing next to Mom was nerve-racking enough, but now with a murderer on my tail, I had to watch my back or my next appearance might be in a coffin.
CHAPTER TWO
The sweet tones of Mom’s divinely played violin faded, wafting through the air like a springtime aroma. A hush descended across the auditorium — stunned silence from gaping mouths in the audience. Then, applause erupted. Two hundred exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen leaped to their feet and volleyed a storm of cheers toward the stage.
Mom pushed back her raven-black hair, tucked her violin under her arm, and bowed gracefully. As the cheers rose to a climax, her ivory face reddened, the scarlet hue a stark contrast to her satiny black gown. Her smile broadening, she focused on Dad as he stood next to me. He clapped with vigor, making his old Nikon camera bounce against his chest where it dangled from a long strap.
With Mom’s strings still singing in my ears, I clapped until my hands ached. As she bowed again, I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Brava!” to Francesca Shepherd, the greatest violinist in the world.
When the applause finally settled and everyone took their seats, Mom’s expression darkened, and her cheeks paled. She glanced around the stage, two familiar worry lines etching her brow.
I looked at Dad. On his opposite side, Dr. Simon, short and bald with owl-like eyeglasses, stared at a text message on his cell phone. Dr. Simon angled the tiny screen toward Dad and said, “Solomon, Mictar is on his way.” A hint of a British accent flavored his voice. “There is no time to lose.”
Dad lifted a hand toward the stage and displayed four fingers. Mom nodded, then stepped forward to a microphone on a stand, her long dress sweeping the platform. She cleared her throat and spoke with a trembling voice. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m overwhelmed by your response.”
She pointed her violin bow toward my row about a dozen seats away. “I want to thank my music teacher, Nikolai Malenkov, for being here today. Without him I would not be playing violin, nor would I even be alive. When my mother died, he took me into his home, and he and his dear wife gave every bit of love a grieving ten-year-old could ever want.”
The crowd clapped again. His face beaming, Dr. Malenkov set a hand over his heart and nodded, spilling his familiar unkempt gray hair over his signature large ears.
Mom turned toward me. “I hope you saved some warmth for our next performer, a young man who is on his way to stardom. I find no greater musical pleasure than to accompany him in our favorite duet.”
Dad leaned close and whispered, “Play your heart out, and never forget how much your mother and I love you.”
“Please welcome,” Mom continued, “my son, Nathan Shepherd.”
Applause erupted once more. Dad gripped my shoulder, and a strange tremor rattled his voice. “Remember what I’ve taught you, and everything will be fine. If you ever get into trouble, look in the Quattro mirror and focus on the point of danger. Nothing is more important.”
“Okay. I’ll remember.” With no time to ask for more information, I rose and headed toward the aisle. As I squeezed past Clara’s silk-covered knees, she patted my hand and whispered, “Go get ’em, Tiger.”
Still pondering Dad’s strange words, I felt as though I were floating outside my body, watching myself climb the four steps to Mom’s level. Arched windows to my left cast filtered sunshine into my eyes as my shoes clicked on the hardwood stage.
When I drew near, Mom laid my violin and bow in the crook of my arm. “Just inhale deeply, my love, and follow my lead. Let your heart take over your hands, and your strings will sing with the angels.” She kissed me on the cheek, then blew softly on my bow fingers, a ritual she began when I was only three. To bless your playing, she had said. The warmth of her breath always calmed me.
The audience quieted to a new hush. I raised the bow to the strings, my eyes on Mom and my calloused fingers pressed against the fingerboard.
I peeked toward Dad. Strange. He was gone. And so was Dr. Simon.
I shivered for a moment before refocusing on Mom as she laid her bow on her strings. With a long, lovely stroke, she began. Her violin sang a sweet aria that begged for another voice to join it.
As if playing unbidden, my hands flew into action, creating a river of musical ecstasy that flowed unhindered into the first stream of joy. The couplet of harmony joined to celebrate life — Vivaldi’s dream of four perfectly balanced seasons.
Mom leaned as close as our vibrating bows would allow. Our strokes slowed, bending the music into a quiet refrain. She reached a rest in her part and whispered, “It is time for a long solo, my love. Perform it with all your heart.”
I glanced at her, my hands playing on their own. A tear inched down her cheek as she continued. “I will join you again when the composer commands me.” She backed away and lowered her bow.
I played on. Closing my eyes to block Mom’s cryptic words, I reconstructed Vivaldi’s theme, building measure upon measure until the composer called spring into birth. New melodies sprouted forth from earth’s womb in all their majesty.
My heart sang along. I had never played this piece so well. Maybe an adrenaline rush boosted my level. Soon Mom would rejoin the duet. Good thing. The hormonal surge might peter out at any moment.
When the time came for her reentry measure, the first note failed to sound. I opened my eyes. My bow dragged across the strings and played a warped scratching noise.
Where was she? I stared into the audience and scanned the dumbfounded faces row by row. Dad’s seat was still empty. Clara’s was vacant as well. The auditorium seemed to swell in size, making me feel like a shrinking mouse, alone on stage with a toy violin and bow.
Whispers ran across the onlookers. Nikolai rose and pointed at a stage door to my left. “Your mother went that way, Nathan.” He spoke in a kind, soothing tone. “Has she taken ill?”
“Not that I know of.” My voice squeaked. I cleared my throat to force a normal tone. “She didn’t mention anything.”
I instinctively reached into my pocket to get my phone, but I had left it in the limo. Dad’s rules — no phones at a performance. He and Mom and Clara wouldn’t have theirs with them either.
A muffled pop sounded. I flinched. What could it have been? A blown circuit? But the lights were still on.
The side door opened. Dr. Simon entered and walked to center stage, heaving quick, shallow breaths. After lowering the microphone stand to his level, he wrung his hands at his waist. “Ladies and gentlemen, please pardon the interruption. Nathan’s parents had to leave unexpectedly. We will have a short break and then hear from our guest pianist.” He stepped back from the microphone and nodded toward me. “I will escort you home.”
“Excuse me,” Clara said from the open stage door. “I will take Nathan home.”
> Dr. Simon pushed his glasses higher on his nose, his eyes darting. “Well … I suppose that will be suitable.” His gaze locked on the exit behind the last row of seats. Two men stood near the doorway, their arms crossed as they stared at the stage — one, a tall white-haired man dressed in an ivory suit, his face thin and pale, and the other, a man of average height wearing a navy blue blazer and khaki pants.
Dr. Simon tugged on his collar. “Clara, please meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes. I have some important information to give you.” His hands still wringing, he pattered off the stage and hurried toward the lobby.
I joined Clara at the door. “Did you see where Mom and Dad went?”
“Maybe. Come with me.” Clara led the way off the stage and into a dim hall. We strode along the short corridor and down a steep staircase. Once we reached the halfway point, she stopped and whispered, “While you were going up on stage, your father and Dr. Simon took off toward the lobby, so I followed.”
Holding my wrist, she descended the creaking steps while hurrying through her words. “When I got into the foyer, I caught a glimpse of your father and Simon ducking into this hall, and I managed to stay close enough to watch them go down these stairs. I tried to listen from up there, but I heard only your violin and a lot of whispering. Then a gunshot.”
“A gunshot? Are you sure?”
“Positive. Then Dr. Simon ran back up, so I ducked out of sight and followed him to the stage.”
When Clara and I reached the bottom of the stairs, we came upon two open doors, one in front that led into darkness and one to the left where a dim light shone from inside.
I whispered, “I wish I had kept that gun instead of giving it to the police.”
“You had no choice.” Clara nodded toward the door straight ahead. “Let’s look around.”
Carrying my violin by its neck, I peered into the darker room. A glow from a hidden source revealed a system of large air ducts hanging from a low ceiling as well as a narrow wooden catwalk a foot above the floor leading away into darkness, perhaps a maintenance area.
With Clara following, I turned to the doorway on the left and stepped inside. An old lamp sat atop an antique desk, its bare bulb illuminating the twelve-by-twelve-foot chamber and a hodgepodge of items — hard-shell suitcases, sports equipment, wicker baskets, ancient typewriters, and two unvarnished coffins, each sitting on a separate low table in front of a head-high, tri-fold mirror.